“Thanks.” As my front wheels hit the eastbound Mississippi bridge, I push the gas pedal close to the floor.
SPANKY FORD WAS SITTING at his desk when the dispatcher informed him that the courthouse had received a bomb threat. Even though he’d known it was coming, his stomach flipped and his mind went blank for a few seconds. What’s the protocol? Sheriff Dennis wasn’t in the building (and hadn’t been since he’d stormed out and Agent Kaiser had announced that the FBI was taking over the department). Since the sheriff’s department occupied much of the western end of the courthouse building, a bomb threat meant a twofold crisis, and Spanky set down the phone in a kind of daze.
“What’s the matter?” asked the FBI agent sitting at the desk with him, a man named Wilson.
“We just got a bomb threat. Apparently it has something to do with JoJo Menteur.”
“Who the hell’s that?” Wilson asked.
“One of the meth prisoners. He’s downstairs in the holding pen.”
“He’s not one of the specials, is he?”
“No. He’s nobody. A Cajun who moved up here about five years ago.”
“What’s the protocol? Do you guys have an EOD squad?”
“Not really,” said Spanky. “We’re supposed to evacuate, both the department and the courthouse.”
“For every phoner? Or only credible threats?”
“How the hell do you know what’s credible? JoJo’s got some crazy-ass cousins. We’ve got to evacuate!”
Wilson thought for a moment. “Well, we can’t move the special prisoners out of the cellblock.”
“Why not? Sheriff Dennis left me in charge, and I’m not going to have deputies or prisoners blown to pieces on my watch. We already lost two men raiding these meth dealers.”
Wilson’s face had colored. “Agent Kaiser will shit a brick if we let those prisoners out of there. Did the threat come with a time frame?”
“Right now! How’s that?” Spanky showed some temper. “What do you think your boss’ll do if those assholes get blown up or die of smoke inhalation?”
“Good point. I’d better call him.”
“You do that. I’m calling an evac.”
Spanky hit the panic button at the front desk, and a loud alarm began blaring through the building. As deputies scattered to perform pre-assigned tasks, Agent Wilson stood and peered at the exterior windows as though some answer lay outside the building. “Who the hell would bomb a courthouse over some low-level Cajun meth dealer?” he asked. “A meth charge might get you a stretch in the pen, but bombing a courthouse is a ticket to death row.”
Spanky was about to reply when the floor rocked beneath his feet, a vibration that went into his bones. The sound only arrived afterward, a muted blast that triggered a combination of awe and fear in him.
“That was the near the courtrooms!” Spanky cried.
Two more explosions sounded from outside the building, reminding Spanky of transformers exploding during a thunderstorm. Then the sprinkler system unleashed a torrent of water upon them. The lights went dim, wavered, blacked out. Seven seconds later, they switched back on as the emergency generator came online. Spanky saw Special Agent Wilson standing with surprising coolness, holding his phone to his ear.
“Nobody would do this for some meth cooker,” he said, wiping water from his eyes. “They’re trying to get us to evacuate the cellblock. They want to break the old guys out.”
As the two men stared at each other, a second detonation rattled the building. This time the room went dark and silent, as all the computer drives and fans spun to a stop.
“They took out the backup generator,” said Spanky. “What do you think now?”
At that moment an FBI agent raced into the office from the hall that led to the courthouse. “Dan!” he cried, waving at Wilson. “Somebody just blew up two of our cars!”
“Son of a bitch,” Wilson said, raising his hand to point at Spanky. “This may be an escape attempt. Don’t let a soul in or out of the cellblock until I get back.”
“Don’t worry,” said Spanky, stunned by how perfectly Forrest’s predictions were being borne out. “You guys be careful out there.”
WHEN THE FIRST SHUDDER rolled through the cellblock floor, all six Double Eagles came up off their cots. As the lights dimmed and came back on, a babble of questions bounced off the cinder-block walls. The fear in the voices was plain. After seven or eight seconds, Snake shouted everyone down, and the block fell silent.
“What the fuck, Snake?” whispered Gene Christian from his cell.
“That was a bomb,” said Skillet McCune.
“C4, sounded like,” said Snake. “Did you think Forrest was gonna leave us in here to rot?”
“Hot damn!” cried Skillet.
“Keep your yap shut. I want to listen.”
Sonny Thornfield had known it was a bomb within two seconds of the blast. During the war he’d been inside buildings that had taken direct hits from mortar rounds. That bone-rattling shudder of masonry and earth was unique to blast waves, at least in this part of the country.
Sonny sat frozen on his cot, wondering what Snake might know that Sonny didn’t. Would Forrest really try to stage a mass escape with FBI agents crawling all over the courthouse?
A second detonation rocked the building, and this time the lights went out. Now the only illumination reaching the cells came from gray light spilling through the high slit windows.
“Jesus,” someone breathed. “Were you expecting that one, Snake?”
“Right on time, boys. This is it. Okay?”
As Sonny wondered what Snake meant, all eight cell doors slid open simultaneously.
“Holy shit,” Skillet marveled.
“Go time,” said Snake.
In the darkness Sonny heard the hiss of sock feet sliding across the floor. The sound seemed to come from all directions at once.
He was no longer alone in his cell.
The fear hit Sonny’s chest like the boot of that Texas Ranger who’d kicked him in the sternum three days ago. He prayed that the pain was only angina and not another heart attack.